


Out of the Cold

by Imbecamiel



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Pre-LotR, Sickfic, archiving an older story previously posted to LJ, but sometimes you've gotta do what you've gotta do, friendship and family - Freeform, walking on barely frozen lakes is a bad idea folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:49:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27115661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imbecamiel/pseuds/Imbecamiel
Summary: In which Aragorn falls into a lake and gets hypothermia, because self-indulgent H/C, that's why.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Cairistiona, who was gracious enough give me permission to draw upon some of the things she's established in her own stories - for instance, the names of Halbarad's wife and children. Absolutely no knowledge of those stories is needed to understand this one, but if you do care to read them, her stories are currently on Stories of Arda. I believe she's in the process of editing them to import here, so eventually the updated versions should be available to read on AO3 as well.

It was good to be heading home.

The fact that his absence had been brief did not lessen Aragorn’s happiness at turning homeward. Just as spring was a time when one’s thoughts stirred toward wandering, so winter was a time for hearth and home. Though duty and necessity might not often leave him a choice in such matters, he gladly welcomed such times of peace when they came.

And it was peaceful, walking alone through the snow. The heavy cloud cover seemed to cast a muffling effect across the whole day, further dimming the late afternoon light. Under the trees, the only sounds he heard were the crunch of snow under his feet and the creak of branches in the wind.

He and several others had traveled into town to fetch supplies—those less willing to venture so far in the cold sending lists of needed items along with them. Now, in the last short stretch of the journey, he had broken from the rest of the men. While they made their way directly to the center of the Dúnedain settlement en route to their homes, he had chosen to take a shorter route to his grandparents’ home on the nearer edge of the settlement. He could deliver the new sewing needles that Ivorwen had requested, and with any luck he might find fresh sticky buns awaiting him. The mere prospect was enough to chase some of the chill from his bones.

A sigh of contentment turned into a smothered cough as cold, dry air scraped the back of his throat. Aragorn grimaced.

He still held out hope that the vague suspicion that he might be coming down with something, which had been dogging him for the last several days, might yet be headed off by warmth, good food, and rest. His knowledge of healing told him that if he did have a cold there was little enough to be done for it now. But even if there was nothing for it but to suffer through, the chance to do so while he could retreat to a comfortable bed rather than a drafty blanket roll on cold, hard ground was not a luxury he would lightly dismiss.

Although the snows had not been particularly heavy, this winter was the coldest they had experienced in a number of years. With all of nature slow with cold and reluctant to move, hunting had been challenging.

Even the small, spring-fed lake at the edge of the settlement, usually covered with no more than a skim of ice, was hard frozen this year. Still, he thought as he cleared the treeline and the lake came into view, he would not care to trust his weight to it. The warmer currents introduced by the springs would not make for a reliable thickness of ice.

A child, winter clothes dark against the snow, bounded into sight on the path ahead. At a distance it was difficult to make out the bundled-up figure, but he could hardly fail to recognize the bouncing, skipping walk of Halbarad’s youngest daughter, Gailluin.

The path might be within a safe distance of the settlement, but even so she was young to be out here without even a sibling for supervision. Was she four still, or had this year’s been her fifth birthday? The time passed so quickly, he thought with a pang, and he had spent so much of it far from his kin.

He wondered if Gailluin had slipped away from whoever was minding her or if she had been given permission to walk the short distance to her great-grandparents’ house and had been distracted along the way. It wouldn’t be the first time either had occurred.

Aragorn raised an arm to wave, intending to call her over to accompany him back to Dírhael and Ivorwen’s home.

A blast of icy wind gusted past, setting the tree branches to swaying and kicking up swirls of snow. He stumbled and hunched his shoulders as his cloak billowed around him, then looked up again swiftly as Gailluin cried out.

His mouth quirked in a smile as he saw the cause of her distress. Her hat—a particular favorite, which her mother had knitted from red-dyed yarn—had been caught by the wind. Even now it tumbled along, always just out of reach as she raced after it.

Amusement was quickly replaced by alarm when he realized where her chase had led her. She was at the very edge of the lake. Even as he watched, the tumbling cap tempted her still farther onto the frozen expanse.

“Gailluin, no!” he shouted. “Come back from there!”

Whether she was too focused to listen, or whether the words were snatched away by the wind, she ran on, heedless. Shrugging off his pack, he left it in the snow to be reclaimed later. He broke into a run, calling out her name again as he hurried closer.

Just as he reached the edge of the lake himself, a dull boom, like distant thunder, echoed off the hills around them. He skidded to a stop, afraid to step onto the ice himself lest his weight upset a delicate balance.

Gailluin too had paused, looking down at the ice beneath her feet, confused and a little frightened by the strange noise.

“Gailluin!” he called out again.

At last she heard and turned to look at him, eyes wide.

“Gailluin, just leave the hat, we’ll take care of that later. Come back over here now.” Now that he had her attention, he was careful to keep his voice gentle and calm. The last thing he wanted was to frighten her into paralysis or tears.

At her first step, however, the resounding boom repeated itself, this time followed almost instantly by a sharp crack. She hesitated again, looking to him for guidance.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” he assured her, hoping he spoke true. “Just keep coming this way, but move slowly.”

Obediently, she continued making her careful way back toward the shore. He found himself holding his breath, one hand outstretched as he watched her progress, as if he could reach out and snatch her from danger should anything go wrong. She could not have been more than ten yards away when the worst did happen.

The ice beneath her buckled. She shrieked in fear, arms windmilling as she fought to catch her balance, until the ice gave way completely and dropped her into the water below.

He was on his way before he had time to think, shedding cloak, overcoat, and sword belt as he went. The wind cut through him like icy needles—but it was nothing next to what the temperature in the water must be.

He was not halfway to the hole before an ominous creaking warned him of the need for greater caution. A downward glance revealed a spiderweb of cracks spreading outward through the ice.

Though everything within him cried out that speed was of the essence, he forced himself to move with deliberation. Lowering himself to the ice, he spread his weight out as much as he could as he crawled forward on his belly, moving as quickly as he dared, pulling with forearms and elbows and pushing with his toes.

Gailluin’s head was still visible above the water, as she clung to the edge of the ice, but he doubted how much longer her strength could last. He tried to catch her eye as he moved toward her, but it was hard to tell whether she was truly focused on him.

She whimpered, and he thought he could make out the syllables of his name in the plaintive sound.

“Just hold on, Gailluin,” he urged. “I’ll be there very soon. Don’t let go.”

He was very nearly within reach when her grip slipped. Her head plunged under the water’s surface.

He lunged, pushing himself forward with his toes. It was not fast enough—and the unwary movement proved too much for the already compromised ice. For the moment he hardly cared. If Gailluin was too far under to reach, he would have to go in anyway.

The cold water drove the air from his lungs, leaving him gasping, but there was no time to struggle for a deeper breath. Ducking under the surface, he reached out blindly, searching for any part of her he could grab onto. All the while at the back of his mind were spinning calculations that were impossible to answer.

What were the chances of survival? How many minutes—seconds?—had she been in the water? How long since she had gone under? Children could be very resilient in such cases, but she was small, so small….

His fingers brushed against something soft—the sleeve of her coat. Grabbing onto her arm, he pulled her to himself and kicked upward, driving them both to the surface.

He gasped. How could the air possibly feel so much colder than the water? He hugged Gailluin to his chest and kicked toward the edge of the ice. Already his limbs felt slow and unresponsive, even the light weight of Gailluin and his own clothes threatening to drag him downward. He wished there had been time to remove his boots, at least, before going into the water.

Holding on to the ice with one arm, he pulled Gailluin away from his chest to look at her face. She was very pale, her lips touched with a hint of blue—from cold, or a lack of air? His own gasping breathing and trembling body made it so hard to tell if she was breathing, even now.

They had to get out of the water. He could do nothing like this.

His first attempt to climb back up onto the ice was an abject failure. The edge crumbled the moment he attempted to put weight on it, nearly ducking him under as he flailed, struggling to keep Gailluin’s face above the surface.

Their combined weight, with waterlogged clothes—it was no good, and he could not afford to try the same thing again and again in hopes of eventual success. Perhaps if he could get Gailluin onto the ice first… but it would have to be far enough from the hole that, if the ice broke under him again, she would not fall back into the water as well.

But how to gain the leverage needed to propel her that far? His mind lit on the little knife concealed in a sheath in his boot—a compromise between the fact that he could not always have his sword secured to his side, even in the Wilds, and the desire not to be entirely unarmed, even at those times.

It was a tricky business to get to the knife without going under in the process, but through careful maneuvering he managed to hitch Gailluin up and rest one forearm and elbow on the edge of the ice. The uncertain hold very nearly failed to support them in the moments when he could not tread water, but he managed to keep his balance long enough for a quick grab at the knife.

For a frightening moment he thought his cold-numbed fingers would surely lose it to the depths of the lake. Forcing his hand to clench into a fist through sheer will, he swiftly drove the knife into the ice. With that grip to brace himself against, he shifted his grip on Gailluin once more before heaving her up and out.

It was no impressive toss by his usual standards, but she was safely free of the water.

Now to manage the same for himself.

Wiggling the knife back and forth to loosen it, he pulled it free of the ice and stretched to reach as far away from the hole as he could before stabbing downward again. With that handhold, he kicked his legs hard and hauled to pull himself upward.

The ice creaked and groaned alarmingly, and several small pieces broke away from the edge, but at last he managed to get enough of his upper body onto the ice to be able to roll away from the hole.

He slid cautiously toward Gailluin, listening all the while for signs that their weight was overstraining the ice. He wanted nothing more than to stop and assess her condition immediately, but he knew that must wait.

The crawl toward shore, dragging Gailluin with him, was painstaking and grew more so with each passing moment. His limbs shook violently, and his breath came in stuttering gasps, each one feeling as if knives were being driven into his lungs. His hands and feet no longer hurt, which was a relief, though a distant voice at the back of his mind told him that it should not be. But he was so very cold, and any reprieve from the pain was welcome.

The cold whiteness beneath him blurred into an unvarying expanse that seemed to stretch on forever. He did not even realize that he had reached the shore until he saw his abandoned cloak and overcoat, just inches away from his outstretched fingers. He stared blankly at the pile of dark cloth for several long seconds before his muddled brain processed its significance.

They were safe—no, safer. The cold was still a deadly enemy. But he could stop now to check on Gailluin without fear of falling through the ice.

Turning, he rested a hand on her chest. He could not see whether it was rising and falling, and his fingers were too numb to detect signs of life.

“Gailluin…? Valar, please…” he breathed.

He rubbed his knuckles hard against her sternum—her clothing would dull the sensation, but it might yet be enough to rouse her. After several long moments her face scrunched up and she made a little mewling sound of distress.

She did not open her eyes or speak, though he called her name several more times, but for the moment it was enough. She breathing, and she was not coughing—a good sign, he thought, that she had not breathed in too much water.

There was a good chance she would yet be all right, if he could get her to warmth in time.

Leaning over, he spread his crumpled cloak out on the ground, then the overcoat on top of it. Still kneeling, he shifted Gailluin over on top of the cloth before wrapping it around her as securely as his clumsy hands could manage.

Gathering the precious bundle in his arms, he staggered to his feet.

It should not have been so difficult, to remember how to stand, to walk, but the first step nearly sent him back to his knees. He couldn’t feel his feet at all. They might as well not have been there. If they had fallen off at some point, it would at least explain why they no longer hurt…

Aragorn shook himself out of the wandering, fanciful thoughts. He had to walk, and so he would.

It was not long before he stumbled to a halt again, lifting his head to look around in confusion. It felt as though a winter storm had taken up residence inside his head, scattering every thought before it could finish forming and obscuring everything in a haze of cold, white blankness.

There was something… some place he needed to go. But what that place was or how he was to get there was lost to him. He was so tired. Perhaps if he slept for a while his mind would be clearer.

At the mere thought of rest every muscle in his body seemed to sag in relief. He swayed, and his hold on the bundle in his arms loosened. He tightened his grasp instinctively as it started to slide toward the ground.

Aragorn looked down in vague surprise. Why had he been carrying… Gailluin. Yes. Gailluin. He had to… had to get her inside. And he had wandered from the path.

Casting about, he caught a glimpse of it through the trees and leaf-barren underbrush off to the left. His heart sank at the thought of having taken even one unnecessary step, but there was nothing for it.

Ordering his reluctant legs back into service, he turned to meet up with the path once more. He knew he could not afford to stop again. Even those few moments of standing still had left his muscles so stiff that it felt as if they had frozen through and would break into pieces if he moved too quickly.

He trudged on, focused only on keeping to the path beneath his feet. His mind drifted with half-formed prayers his lips were too numb to voice.

A dark shape loomed in front of him. Aragorn dragged his head up to stare at the building. The end of his trek? He couldn’t dredge up recognition, much less relief.

A few more steps carried him to the doorway. Having reached it, however, he was still at a loss as to how he could draw the attention of those inside. If he shifted Gailluin to one arm to knock he would surely drop her, and if he tried to set her down he would fall on his face. He tried to call out for help, but could only produce an all-but-inaudible croak, which quickly dissolved into a rasping cough.

Utter despair threatened to pull him under like the dark waters of the lake as he struggled to convince his sluggish mind to overcome this last obstacle. Just one more…

But his body had been pushed too far, and now it was giving out on him. He swayed and caught himself, leaning one shoulder against the door. Perhaps he should bash his head against it. That, at least, might bring a quicker end to his troubles…

The wood under his shoulder shifted inward, revealing a thin sliver of a golden glow from within. The mere sight of the bright color after struggling through a seemingly endless expanse of gray and white was startling.

“—and I tell you that I heard something out there.” The voice from the other side of the door was warm and rich, and the most welcome sound he had ever heard. “If it is one of the children throwing snowballs, then—“

The door scraped and slid further inward as the speaker tugged on it, and Aragorn stood not the slightest chance of catching his balance in time.

It was pure luck—or Ilúvatar’s merciful intervention—that he fell sideways rather than flat on his face. He could no more have stopped himself from crushing Gailluin than he could have danced a celebratory jig at that moment.

“Aragorn!”

“Is that Gailluin?”

“They’re covered in ice!”

The alarmed voices seemed oddly unimportant. The fluttering movements around him were slightly more bothersome, but it hardly mattered.

He was done. He had brought Gailluin to safety, and he could finally rest in the knowledge that someone else would be there to look after her. His eyes slid shut and he allowed himself to drift off…

… only to be dragged back to the present by strong hands gripping his shoulders and an insistent voice calling his name.

With a protesting groan he dragged open his eyes to find Dírhael leaning over him.

“That’s more like it. You stay with me, Aragorn, do you hear?”

Dírhael’s voice was fierce, and his face set in a deep scowl. Aragorn hated to disobey that commanding tone, though he couldn’t imagine what he had done to so displease his grandfather.

A hand tapped roughly against his face, and his eyes fluttered open again. He didn’t remember closing them.

“Aragorn, I know you’re tired, but you cannot sleep now.” Seeing that he was awake for the moment, Dírhael laid his hand more gently against Aragorn’s cheek. “Ah, lad, your skin’s like ice…”

He felt a slight pressure at the touch, but none of the warmth of living skin. It made him want to cry. Perhaps all warmth had indeed been sucked out of the world, leaving nothing behind but deadly cold. He hardly remembered what it was like to feel anything other than icy numbness.

Dírhael looked up as Ivorwen approached. “Is she….?”

“Dry and bundled up in blankets now. Her clothes were soaked through. She’s breathing, but won’t wake yet.” Glancing down, she noted Aragorn’s open eyes and offered a wan smile. “He’s still awake, then. Good.”

“More or less,” Dírhael agreed. “Difficult to tell how aware he is. Help me move him over close to the fire and I can get him out of his wet things while you put water on to boil.”

Aragorn was distantly aware that he should be annoyed at being discussed as if he was not present, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was simply relieved that they didn’t expect him to answer any questions for himself. Just keeping his eyes open was so much work.

It seemed in the end even that simple task was beyond him. He was dragged back to awareness again as shudders began to wrack his body and a growing sensation like dozens of tiny needles pricked at his skin. Just when he thought that he had plumbed the depths of misery that cold had to offer…

He wished guiltily that he could drift off again, though he knew that his grandfather would be little pleased with him for having failed to stay awake in the first place. It could not have been very long, though, and perhaps they had not noticed his lapse.

With that thought came the realization that a conversation was taking place across the room

“—I’ll go and ask them if they’ve any to lend us.” Dírhael was saying. He was no longer by Aragorn’s side, but Aragorn had not the energy to lift his head and see where he had gone.

“Send someone to tell Halbarad and Miriel what’s happened as well,” Ivorwen called after him.

She stood at the hearth, close by Aragorn’s head. Gailluin lay swaddled in a pile of blankets just beyond where Ivorwen stood, tucked in near the fire as he was. At the sight of her a pang of true fear cut through his sluggish thoughts.

As Ivorwen turned from the fire and bent to kneel at his side, he struggled to voice his worries, but all that made it past his lips was a garbled groan.

“Easy, lad,” Ivorwen soothed, “rest easy. We’ll soon have you warmer.”

He frowned, frustration fighting to overcome the lethargy that dragged at him. He looked again toward Gailluin, trying to see if she was stirring. Ivorwen followed the direction of his gaze.

“You did well getting her here, and I think you were in time,” Ivorwen told him, though the look in her eyes did not seem to speak of great confidence in the outcome. “You just let us take care of her now. She’s all tucked up as warm as we can get her, at least until Dírhael returns with more bedwarmers. We’re doing everything we can, and we must leave the rest to time and prayer.”

Lifting the blankets covering him, she tucked one of the earthen bedwarmers filled with boiling water in beside him as well, safely wrapped in a towel to keep from burning his skin.

And there, there was warmth at last, but it brought with it little relief. His insides felt as if they had frozen into a solid block of ice, even while his skin was beginning to crawl with pain that seemed paradoxically cold and burning with heat at the same time.

Ivorwen was lifting his head up, placing a mug of what smelled like herbal tea to his lips. The light touch of it felt like a brand being pressed against his skin. He hissed in pain, trying to jerk his head away from the unwanted heat, but only managed a twitch.

Ivorwen clucked at him, her brows drawing together in a frown of concern. “I know it may feel very warm to you, but I've tested the temperature. It is quite safe—try to drink a little, at least. You will feel better with something warming you from within.”

Reluctantly, he took a sip and coughed at the unexpected sweetness. How much honey had she put in it? Ivorwen chuckled as his distaste was made evident in his expression, but relentlessly offered another drink nonetheless.

“Go on,” she said. “Whether it’s to your taste or not it will give you strength, and you need all of that you can get. You’re about as weak as a half-drowned kitten.”

Near enough to the truth, he thought wryly.

Sickly sweet though the drink might be, the warmth of it did indeed begin to loosen the frozen knots in his belly and clear away some of the fog in his mind.

Sadly, the greater clarity was less than welcome at that particular moment. He was growing warmer, yes, but everything felt so… strange. Cold and heat were like competing rivers of oil and water, sliding through his body, each trying to push the other away.

Warmth pooled at his core, where the tea was settling in his stomach, in his head, which was closest to the fire, his chest, where the bedwarmer was tucked against him.

His extremities seemed to be warming, cold fire continuing to burn in his hands and feet and shooting pangs up his limbs at regular intervals. A good sign, probably, but one he wished he could do without.

But the cold… that oozed slowly to settle in his upper arms, his thighs, seeping into his bones as if it would take residence there, waiting for the moment the heat retreated to crawl out again and begin devouring.

He shuddered, hardly knowing if it was the morbid thoughts or the cold itself that caused the reaction. Then the shudder came again, and again, his whole body seeming to spasm with the shivers, though he hardly knew where it found the energy to continue doing so.

He drifted for a while, dimly aware of the cold, and misery, and wishing it would all just stop, but not quite releasing the last threads of awareness.

And then a few feet away came a hitching breath, which soon turned into a sob.

The sound of a child’s crying would make a poor lullaby for him on any normal day, but tonight the noise thawed the cold fear that had been wrapped around his heart. Something in that sound told him that all would be well. He could rest.


	2. Chapter 2

When next he awoke it was to find himself in a proper bed, though a little small for a man of his height. He had no memory of how he had gotten into it, and not the faintest idea of how much time had passed.

He was lying on his side, curled up around a bed-warmer like a child might sleep with a beloved toy—hardly his usual sleeping position, but the warmth was very welcome indeed. His whole body ached as if he had been beaten from head to toe, and it felt as if the winter’s chill had seeped into his very bones.

A cautious stretch and shifting in the bed awakened still more pain to join the chorus of complaints his body was making. Still, no sharper, more localized pains warned of any more serious injuries received.

More worrying was the fact that he could not seem to remember how he had come to be in such a state. Despite his having just awakened, his head and limbs were leaden with exhaustion, and that combined with a general headachyness and a pressure in his sinuses suggested that sickness might be to blame for his body’s current condition. That would not explain his lack of memory, however, nor how—

He was startled by a soft sigh from behind him. He hadn’t realized there was anyone else in the room. Yet another sign that he was not at his best.

Rolling onto his back—suppressing a groan at the movement—he saw Halbarad, seated on a hard-backed chair, both feet propped up on the small bedside table. His head was tilted back at an angle that promised days of stiff neck and back muscles if he had been asleep in such a position long.

Aragorn’s eyebrows rose. Sick he might be, but he hardly felt in such dire straits as to warrant a bedside vigil, and Halbarad was hardly one to resort to hand-wringing and hovering at the first sign of a sniffle. Not unless something far more dangerous threatened.

The thought tugged at something in his memory, dreams of deadly black water and unending fields of white snow. He shuddered. Usually such dreams held little weight in the light of day, but this one…

No. This had been no mere dream. He inhaled sharply as memory came rushing back. Instantly, the hissing breath triggered a coughing fit. He winced. His throat felt raw, but it seemed attempting to suppress the spasms only made matters worse.

Halbarad startled awake, his feet falling to the floor with a thud. Seeing Aragorn’s distress, he jumped up and grabbed a cup of water off the bedside table. He pressed the cup into Aragorn’s hand, movements clumsy in his half-awake state. Then, as Aragorn nearly dropped the cup in his struggle to sit up, Halbarad grabbed it back with one hand, sliding the other behind Aragorn’s shoulders to raise him enough to drink without choking.

By the time Aragorn at last settled back in bed, coughs held at bay for the moment, they were both thoroughly awake. Halbarad sank back into his chair with a sigh, massaging the back of his neck and rolling his shoulders to relieve the stiffness. He looked unutterably weary, which did little to allay Aragorn’s fears.

“Gailluin?” Aragorn asked hoarsely, hardly knowing if he wanted to hear the answer.

Halbarad lifted his head to give him a tired smile. “It seems she will be well, Valar be praised. We had a long and fearful night—on her part and yours—but she is warm and sleeping peacefully now. Though how she manages to do so with Miriel still weeping and rocking her like a babe is beyond me.”

Aragorn laughed, relief doing more to loosen the tightness in his chest than any medicine, despite his congestion. Unless he missed his guess, Halbarad had done his own share of worrying, and likely even weeping, in the course of the night. He had certainly managed little enough sleep, if the dark circles under his eyes were anything to go by. 

“And are you here to favor me with the same treatment?” he asked.

Halbarad arched an eyebrow. “If you think it would help I will, and gladly.”

When Halbarad made as if to actually rise, Aragorn raised a staying hand.

“Keep your tender ministrations,” he laughed. “The thought alone is enough to provide me with fuel for nightmares.”

Halbarad crossed his arms and settled back in his chair, chuckling, but soon sobered.

“Truly, Aragorn, how are you? You look—not so near to death’s doorstep as you did last night, but far from well.”

“Truly? I feel as if a troll has kicked me to Bree and back, and I may not thaw entirely until summer returns. But I will be well enough.”

Halbarad nodded and dropped his gaze to study his fingernails with far more interest than they warranted. After several moments’ silence, Aragorn spoke up.

“What is it?”

Halbarad glanced up, startled. “What?”

Aragorn sighed. “Something is clearly on your mind. Allowing it to fester unvoiced will do neither of us any good, and I do not have the energy to pry it from you. So: out with it.”

“I… hardly know what to think or feel, far less what to say.” Halbarad ran a hand over his face. “I owe you a greater debt than I can ever repay. If we had lost Gailluin…” He shut his eyes as if to block out the thought.

“Halbarad, you know that there can be no such debts between us.”

Halbarad held up a staying hand. “Hear me out. I am more grateful to you than I can say.”

“But?” Aragorn prompted when he faltered, sensing that that inability was not the only thing weighing on his kinsman’s mind.

“But—Aragorn, if we had lost _you…_ You came so very close to death last night. If you had fallen, and our hope perished with you…”

Aragorn shook his head, frustrated. “What would you have had me do? Turn my back and refuse to act? Deem my life more valuable than—“

Halbarad lifted his head to fix him with a look to full of anguish that he stopped, ashamed.

“I am sorry, my friend,” Aragorn went on more quietly. “That was unjust.”

Halbarad heaved a sigh and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “No, I would not have had you act in any other way. I am beyond grateful that you were there, that you acted, that you had the strength to do as you did.” He huffed a humorless laugh. “And yet here I sit, hardly knowing whether to swear myself your slave forever in payment of an impossible debt—or to lock you up safely and lecture you hourly until you surrender and swear never to frighten me like that again.”

“Ah. I see your dilemma,” he agreed wryly. “And do I have any vote in the matter?”

Halbarad’s face softened in a more genuinely fond smile. “I would say you’ve earned that right, at least.”

“Then hear me well. If there is any debt here, it is only the one we both of us owe to Ilúvatar for His merciful intervention. There is a time for sober reflection and learning from past mistakes, and there is a time for letting go of might-have-beens and simply giving thanks that all turned out well in the end.”

“I suppose you are right.” Halbarad sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

Dubious though he might sound, Aragorn knew he had won the argument. He smiled.

“Of course I am. Now stop fretting over it. You think far too much, my friend.”

“I?” Halbarad stared at him incredulously. “ _I_ think too much? I seem to recall—“

Aragorn waved a hand at him in regal acquiescence. “No, forgive me. I was mistaken. Of course it would be ridiculous in the extreme to accuse you of thinking overmuch.”

Halbarad sputtered in outrage. Aragorn’s shoulders shook with laughter he tried to suppress, lest Halbarad choose to smother it for him.

“If you were not confined to that bed…” Halbarad growled.

At that the dam burst and he gave in to the gales of laughter. The laughter was soon mixed with coughs that rattled in his chest, producing a truly alarming sound, but it was not such an easy matter to stop when once he had started. After the tension and fear and physical trials of the last day he had needed that release.

When at last he collapsed against his pillow, wiping at streaming eyes, Halbarad was hovering like the mother hen he was, looking as if he could not decide whether to join in the laughter or become truly concerned.

Aragorn flapped a dismissive hand at him.

“’M’fine,” he mumbled, then winced, surprised at the hoarseness of his own voice.

“Of course you are.” Halbarad shook his head at him. “Get some sleep. You need it.” Stretching and rolling his shoulders out, he looked toward the door. “I should go and convince Miriel to do the same.”

Aragorn hummed in vague agreement. His eyes were already drooping as he heard Halbarad’s footsteps crossing the room. He was asleep before he could hear the door close behind him.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Aragorn was floating in a comfortably mostly-asleep state when he became aware of the noise. A repetitive creaking and thumping _,_ frequent enough to draw his attention but not quite so regular as to become mere background noise he could ignore.

Cracking his eyes open, he saw Gailluin sitting in the chair Halbarad had occupied earlier. She was wrapped up in a dark green blanket and had drawn her feet up onto the chair, safely within the bundle of warmth.

As he watched, her legs bounced up and down several times before she resumed the motion that had been producing the noises he heard: rocking forward, causing the chair to emit a protesting _creak,_ and back again, so that her shoulders hit the back of the chair with a soft _thump._

“Gailluin,” he rasped, smiling a bit at seeing her boundless energy so quickly returned after her ordeal. If only his own recovery could be so rapid.

She froze and huddled further into her blanket, staring at him over her knees with wide, startled eyes. It was not like her to be shy, much less with him.

“Nana Ivorwen said I could sit in here with you if I didn’t wake you up.” It was a child’s whisper, not nearly so quiet as she thought it to be but a valiant effort for one so irrepressible.

“Ah. I see,” he replied, understanding dawning. “In truth, I was growing tired of sleeping. If you don’t tell Nana Ivorwen then I won’t either.”

Gailluin grinned and wiggled a little, eyes sparkling in delight at the idea of conspiring with him to keep a secret from her great-grandmother.

“Mama and Papa had to go home,” she informed him, no longer bothering to whisper. “I can’t go outside yet because it’s too windy and snowy and I might get cold again. Nana Ivorwen says she’ll make sticky buns for us later, though, and I can help.”

With the window shuttered and curtained against winter winds he had little idea of the weather outside, but now she mentioned it he could hear the whistle of wind coming around the corners of the house and catching in the eaves. It must be kicking up quite the storm—a good day to stay inside.

“Sounds delicious , ” he murmured.

In truth, though, he was not certain he could swallow even something as tempting as the sweet buns. It felt—and likely sounded—as if he had been gargling gravel. He cleared his throat, trying to rid himself of the sensation, but only succeeded in turning the gravel to shards of broken glass. Wincing, he pushed himself further up in the bed so that he could swallow a mouthful of water from the cup on the bedside table. It helped, a little.

He hadn’t thought that he felt particularly bad on first waking, but now that he was sitting up ,  his body was informing him otherwise. His muscles were stiff and sore, but that discomfort took second place to his head. It was aching even more than it had earlier and felt altogether too heavy for his neck to support. He rested it against the headboard.

Valar, but he hated being ill. And ill he was now, beyond all doubt. His chest was heavy and tight with congestion and a persistent tickle lingered at the back of his throat. He swallowed against the urge to cough, knowing that he would not enjoy the results of giving in to it now.

“Does your throat hurt?”

He turned to find Gailluin looking at him with unusual seriousness.

“A little,” he admitted.

“Do you want a peppermint?”

She stuck a hand out of the blanket huddle to offer him the candy. Best not to think too much about how long it had been carried in a pocket, or how many times it might have been dropped on the floor. It did not appear to be sticky or covered in fuzz, at least, which gave him hope that it was a recent acquisition.

“Thank you.” He accepted the gift with a grave nod.

It was not exactly a horehound-and-honey lozenge, but it would help.

Gailluin produced another peppermint for herself. For a few minutes they sucked on their mints in companionable silence.

The door cracked open, the unexpected noise making them both jump a little, and Dírhael stuck his head in before entering. He held a bowl in one hand.

“Ah, you are awake, then,” he said, seeing Aragorn was sitting up. “I thought I heard voices in here. I hope your nursemaid’s been taking good care of you?”

“Very good care , ” Aragorn assured him with a smile for Gailluin.

“I gave him a peppermint,” she informed Dírhael proudly.

“Did you now? That was very generous. I’m not sure I’ll do half so good a job of caring for him as you have, but you’d best let me take over for a while here. Your help’s wanted in the kitchen.”

“Sticky rolls!” she crowed triumphantly, leaping off the chair and hurrying toward the door. The blanket, still wrapped around her shoulders, dragged along behind her like the train of a royal robe.

Dírhael sank into the chair she had vacated.

“You slept through lunch, but we thought it best not to wake you. How does some soup sound?”

He offered Aragorn the bowl he held.

“Soup’s good.” Aragorn gave him a smile of gratitude as he took the bowl.

“Halbarad said you seemed under the weather,” Dírhael remarked. “Judging by the sound of your voice and your breathing I’d say he was right.”

Aragorn shrugged a shoulder, grimacing. “Nothing serious, I think. I suspected I was coming down with something a couple of days ago. The swim just settled matters.”

Dírhael nodded. “Ivorwen feared you might have inhaled some water. She’s been sticking her head in here even more frequently since he mentioned your cough, just to make sure you were still breathing properly. Still, even if the cause is more ordinary, you’d best be taking it easy. Your body won’t be happy with all it’s been through.”

Aragorn grunted in agreement, smothering a cough in the sleeve of his nightshirt—or, he supposed, one of Dírhael’s spare nightshirts.

He and his grandfather had never required many words between them, and their silences were comfortable with years of understanding—though certainly not always agreement—behind them. As he ate now, however, Aragorn could not shake the vague feeling that something was amiss. Foggy recollections of Dírhael’s scowling face, a lingering feeling that he had been angry for some reason… though no memory remained of what he might have done to upset his grandfather. Surely if they had quarreled he would not have forgotten it.

If he had seen anything in Dírhael’s attitude to suggest that he was upset Aragorn would have been tempted to apologize preemptively, despite his hazy memory, but the man seemed untroubled. Deciding that it must be some strange dream or misplaced recollection called up by the previous night’s confusion, he shrugged off the sensation.

“Gailluin seems to be bouncing back quickly,” he remarked.

Dírhael chuckled. “Aye, that she is. One of the advantages of youth—in some things they are more vulnerable, but in others they easily leave their elders in the dust. The prospect of staying here without any of her siblings about seems to have been quite enough to outweigh any lingering fears from her ordeal. Though I suppose we’ll see come bedtime whether any nightmares rear their heads in the darkness.”

“She said that the weather was too bad for her to go home. Is it such a storm out there?”

“The wind’s been howling away since early this morning, and unless I miss my guess, we’ll have a true blizzard coming in by evening. Halbarad and Miriel didn’t want to risk being stranded away from the rest of their children for another night. It’s not so far to go, but we thought it best not to risk exposing Gailluin to the cold again so soon.”

“Mmm. Wise.”

The bowl was only a little more than half empty, but he was finding it hard to summon the energy to finish it. Even the soothing warmth of the soup was doing little to abate the tickle in his throat, and stopping to cough every few minutes was exhausting. His chest was sore, and the ache in his head had developed into a pounding that kept pace with his heart.

“Not hungry?” Dírhael asked, noting his lack of enthusiasm.

“Not as much as I thought, apparently.”

His eyelids were threatening to slide shut, much to his frustration—he’d had more than enough of sleeping already. He inhaled sharply and pulled his head up as Dírhael took the bowl from his hand. It had been in danger of falling.

Leaning forward, Dírhael put one hand to Aragorn’s forehead.

“As I thought,” he said after a moment. “A bit warmer than you should be. We’ll have to be keeping an eye on that.”

Aragorn sighed. “I had thought that I might head home myself before the storm breaks.”

Dírhael’s eyebrows rose. “I hardly think that’s wise. Sturdy and well used to weathering hardships you may be, but there’s no call to be testing your limits unnecessarily.”

“I hardly think it’s so dangerous,” he protested weakly. “And you and Ivorwen have enough on your hands with Gailluin staying with you. I can stay abed uselessly as well in my own house as here.”

Even as he said it, he knew there was little chance of his grandfather bowing to the argument. Nor, now he thought of it, did he have the energy to press the point just yet.

“Aye, maybe you can. But will you? Besides,” Dírhael added with a grin, “you know your grandmother will only worry the more if you’re not within her reach. You’ll give her far more rest by staying where she can keep an eye on you.”

That earned a tired laugh from Aragorn. “I suppose so.”

“Best not to argue with the wisdom won by age and experience.” Rising, Dírhael patted Aragorn’s knee. “I must get the animals settled before this storm blows in. Get some rest, now. Your head may not want it, but your body needs it. I’ll look in on you when I get back , if you’re still awake enough to want company then.”

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

He did intend to rest. And, given his body’s demands, he hardly thought it would be a difficult task.

Unfortunately, left to himself he found that drifting off was not nearly so simple as it seemed. His neck ached. His arms ached. His back ached. His legs ached. Every time he shifted position to make himself more comfortable another part of his body took up the complaint. His skin felt prickly and over-sensitive to the slightest touch.

He kicked off his covers, after going from comfortably warm to nauseatingly overheated within the space of a few seconds. Minutes later he was shaking with cold and tempted to abandon the battle for rest entirely.

If he got up, at least he would have something to distract himself with rather than dwelling on his own misery. But even sitting up to reach the covers and pull them back over himself was enough to leave him dizzy and coughing himself breathless. He would just have to wait for Dírhael to return.

Shutting his eyes, he curled up under the blankets and tried to find something to fix his wandering mind on. Perhaps if he went over the poems he had memorized one by one. Some of them were quite long….

He did not remember at what point he lost the thread of his thoughts and drifted off. It did not seem so much that he fell asleep as that the waking world slowly drifted into strange and unfamiliar shapes while never _quite_ disappearing from his awareness.

The wind howling around the corners of the house and rattling at the shutters seemed to sneak through the very walls to sink into his bones with an aching cold that he thought he had escaped. Perhaps not. Perhaps those walls were not so solid as they had seemed earlier and he had not reached safety after all, but was wandering in half-frozen confusion, finding only brief snatches of solace in delusions of warmth and home.

At first it was no more than a passing thought, but as time dragged on and the cold shudders that shook his body only grew in frequency all he could see before his eyes was unending frozen whiteness.

He was so alone.

It seemed as if there had been someone there, before. Someone important, and a place just within reach if he only pressed on.

But now there was nothing, and no one. Only forward, into yet more of the same, hills and valleys of snow and blowing ice pellets that bit at his face as the treacherous, malicious wind re-formed the very ground beneath his feet, causing him to stumble and fall again and again. It grew harder and harder just to draw in full breaths, as if a weight sat on his chest. And always there was the howling, as if a pack of wolves was on his trail.

He would almost have welcomed them. They would be at least a change from the white nothingness, and a reason to _fight_ instead of trudging numbly on with no goal in sight.

From time to time he thought there were voices carried on the wind. They spoke, sometimes to each other and sometimes it seemed to him, and every time a sense of familiarity tugged at him. It seemed as if he should know those voices, but every time recognition seemed almost within his grasp it drifted away again, his thoughts scattering with the wind.

After a while they came nearer, and he thought he heard them calling his name. And then recognition struck—his grandparents! He had been trying to get to them, hadn’t he? But now he was lost in this storm, with no idea how to find his path.

It was, at least, a vague sort of comfort to hear them. They seemed upset, though. Something was wrong…

Distantly he could hear his grandparents debating whether it would be wise to go out in this, whether a healer would be able to do any more than they could themselves. He wanted to call out, to tell them to stay safely at home. It was cold out here, so cold, and he wanted to join them himself but he couldn’t find the way.

And then he wasn’t cold anymore but hot—burning up, as if it was not snow he was surrounded by but the very deserts of Harad.

He had heard before that people who were on the verge of freezing to death often not only ceased to feel cold but even felt quite warm. He had thought then that it seemed a last mercy in the midst of a miserable death. Now he saw that it was no mercy at all, but further torment. This was no gentle, soothing warmth but searing heat.

From time to time he thought that he had found his way home, the landscapes of snow melting away to be replaced by familiar walls and his grandparents’ faces. But though they spoke to him, they seemed far off, and always after a little while they drifted away again.

It was all so confusing. He hardly knew how to decide which was real and which the dream.

He blinked and found the walls of the bedroom around him once more. Only this time, rather than distant and hazy, the world around him seemed all too real. The orange light of the lamp made him wince, feeling like a harsh assault to his eyes. He turned away, searching for something to hold him here. Real or not, he did not want to lose himself to the snowy wilderness again.

A hand touched his, warm and very real. He risked turning toward the light again to see who it was. Ivorwen’s worried gray eyes met his. She looked tired. He tried to grasp her hand, but couldn’t manage more than a weak twitch of his fingers. It was enough.

“Aragorn?” she asked softly. The mattress dipped as she sat, taking his hand in hers. “Are you with us?”

He blinked at her, unable to find the strength to speak—hardly knowing what he would say if he could. _Was_ he here, truly? It felt real…

A work-roughened hand brushed his hair away from his face before coming to rest against his forehead. He leaned into the touch, turning his gaze to find his grandfather standing beside the bed. Dírhael smiled at him.

“It seems so. It appears your fever has broken, thank the Valar.”

Fever? Had he been…? He supposed it made as much sense as anything.

His grandparents seemed much relieved, convinced that he was back to stay at last, but he felt less sure. Now that he had regained a firmer grasp on reality he was reluctant to relinquish it, fearful lest it should all melt away again.

Despite all intentions, however, he soon found that the security of his grandparents’ presence and the gentler warmth he seemed to have found at last soon eased him into sleep.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Wakefulness came with a start, his heart picking up speed before he could remember what cause he had to be afraid. A moment’s glance around the room grounded him. No, he was in no danger. With a clearer mind now he could see that he might indeed have been in danger the night before—though not the danger his fever-addled dreams had conjured up.

Pushing himself slowly into a sitting position, he tested his body’s strength. He felt shivery and a bit unsteady, but enough of the numbing fog had cleared away that he had hope he was past the worst of it now.

He was at least well enough that restlessness was beginning to tip the scales against the overwhelming weariness that had been dragging at him. Cozy as the tiny bedroom might be, its four walls soon closed in when they were one’s only scenery.

He swung his feet over the edge of the bed, hissing when his bare feet touched the cold floorboards. Tempting to pull them back within the warm safety of the blankets at once—but if he could only make it across the room he could ask for a pair of stockings, and would have gained the benefit of fresh surroundings in the next room as well.

_If_ he could make it across the room. Such a simple proposition, but hardly so straightforward once he tried it. He had to lean on the bedside table for leverage to push himself upright. He had only half a second to enjoy the triumph of standing on his own two feet before the dark spots dancing in front of his eyes blacked out his vision entirely and a rushing sound filled his ears.

Disoriented, he fumbled for the wall, trying to find something solid enough to brace himself against until his vision cleared. His knees were trembling, and with a sinking feeling he realized that the best he could likely hope for was to try to collapse backwards onto the bed rather than forward onto the hard floor.

Just as that humiliating realization sank in, strong hands gripped his elbow and shoulder, steading him as he slowly sat back down. He blinked rapidly, and his vision and hearing cleared up just in time for him to catch the end of what his grandmother was saying.

“…did you think you were going, Aragorn?”

He winced at her scolding tone, resisting the urge to hang his head like a child caught stealing cakes.

“I thought I might come out and sit by the fire for a while…” The utter reasonableness of his plan was somewhat undermined by the fact that even the pathetically weak effort of standing had left him a little out of breath. His chest felt as if it was weighed down by a sack of rocks.

“How did you think you were going to manage that, when you could hardly stand on your own two feet? You are in no condition to be taking a stroll just yet. You had a nasty turn last night, and coming so soon on top of that fall through the ice it’s done your recovery no favors.”

“I know.” He grimaced, smothering a cough. “I am sorry. I did not intend to worry you further. It is just that I grow tired of staring at the same four walls.”

“And when did you have the time to grow so bored, pray?” She shook her head, giving him a despairing look. “You have been asleep or out of your head with fever more than you’ve been awake.”

“It is remarkable how quickly the attraction of both of those activities can pall,” he said wryly, pulling his feet back up under the warmth of the covers and turning to lean against the headboard.

Lips pursed in disapproval, Ivorwen tested his temperature with one hand against his forehead. “Still a little warm… though not too bad, all things considered. Valar have mercy on any healer given the care of you. I imagine you’ve driven more than one to an early retirement.”

The chiding instantly called to mind his younger days—Elrond’s frowning admonishments that he must give that leg time to heal before running off to attempt exactly the same thing that landed him in bed to begin with. Gilraen’s worried scolding, “Estel, the mere fact that we live among Elves does not exempt you from the illnesses of Men. Denying that you are sick will not hasten your recovery.” And then, of course, there were the incidents of his not-so-very-much-younger days, as Halbarad would attest….

“On the contrary, I have always been a model patient.” He gave Ivorwen a sweet smile.

“Oh, _you.”_ She smacked him lightly on the arm. “Hush, and lie back now. If you save your strength this morning, I’ll ask Dírhael to help you out to sit by the fire later. He’s quite got his hands full supervising Gailluin as she ‘helps’ to prepare breakfast at the moment.”

“I am sorry,” Aragorn sighed and deflated, realizing just how exhausted the two of them must be, caring for both a sick man and an energetic young child, and on two nights of interrupted sleep at that. “I wish I were not such a burden. It frustrates me, to be unable to even care for myself.”

“Surely you must know that you could never be a burden to us.” Ivorwen’s expression softened. “I had so little opportunity to spoil you properly when you were a child. Don’t deny me my simple pleasures now. Little as I like seeing you unwell, it does my heart good to have you near. We see you so seldom of late.”

Her words only stirred up further guilt. So many competing duties and desires… at times it seemed there was nothing he could do without his heart reproaching him for something else left undone, or some other person neglected. How many times had he wished to be in two—or three—places at once?

Apparently reading some of his thoughts in his face, Ivorwen frowned, taking a seat next to him on the bed and cupping his face with one hand.

“Aragorn… you know the last thing I would wish is to add to your troubles. I meant no reproach. It is only because we love you that we can never call the time you spend with us ‘enough.’ I could not be more proud of the man you have become, or the grace with which you respond to the many calls on your time and affection.”

He ducked his head, embarrassed despite himself at her words.

A loud crash coming from the direction of the kitchen made them both jump. With a sound that was half-despairing, half-amused Ivorwen stood.

“I’d best be getting back out there before they bring the house down around our ears,” she said. “Shall I bring you a light breakfast, or are you ready for heartier fare?”

The question required more consideration than it should have. By all logic he should be more than ready to eat, and his head told him that he needed food in order to recover his strength. His tongue, however, was less enthusiastic, even with the temptation of Ivorwen’s cooking. His stomach refused to cast a deciding vote, one moment growling ravenously, the next sending out queasy warnings that it might at any moment decide to reject the food it so desperately needed.

“Best start with something simple,” he decided with a regretful grimace.

“All right then. I’ll soon have it ready for you.” Ivorwen nodded. Then, with a slightly mischievous smile, she added, “And as soon as she’s eaten I’ll send Gailluin in to keep you company. That ought to keep you _both_ occupied long enough for me to set the rest of the house to rights.”

Aragorn frowned. “You must be very tired. Surely you ought to get some rest yourself…”

Ivorwen gave him a fond pat on the arm. “Don’t you worry about me, now. I got a few hours of sleep this morning, after your fever broke. It’ll do me fine until I have a chance to rest later today. Unless I miss my guess, even our very-grown-up Gailluin got little enough sleep that she’ll soon be needing a nap, despite all protests to the contrary.”

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

The food sat easier on his stomach than he had feared it might. Even better, rather than being exhausted by the simple activity , Aragorn found himself feeling quite alert and ready for company by the time Gailluin arrived. Not that conversations with her generally required a great deal of input—she was more than happy to fill in any lapses.

Gailluin had chattered happily about how she had shared Nana Ivorwen and Ada Dírhael’s big bed. Aragorn shrewdly guessed that it did not seem nearly so “big” to them when once she was in it. Most likely their night would have been interrupted by a great deal of kicking and bouncing even if his illness hadn’t produced a graver reason for lost sleep.

Aragorn had thought initially that Gailluin had slept through the night’s drama. Judging by her yawns and rapidly-declining energy levels, however, it soon became apparent that she hadn’t remained entirely oblivious to the disturbance, even if Dírhael and Ivorwen had managed to shield her from the true level of their concern.

Since he was—all but miraculously, it seemed to him—both awake and hungry when lunchtime arrived, Dírhael had, as promised, helped him out to join them. It felt like the first time in ages that he had shared a meal with those he held dear, and the simple pleasure of it did his heart as much good as his body.

The effort left him tired, but he was far from ready to resign himself to sleep yet again. Instead, Aragorn ensconced himself in a chair pulled up near to the fire and settled in with a whittling knife and a small block of wood to occupy himself. When Ivorwen went to get some bread dough rising before she rested, Dírhael had declared it to be naptime for little girls and old men alike.

When Gailluin insisted that naptime required a story first, Dírhael—canny grandfather and great-grandfather that he was—pled weariness borne of old age and suggested that _she_ should be the one to tell the story. Gailluin was dubious at first, but by the time Dírhael had settled her on his lap with a warm blanket draped over them both her imagination had taken over.

Listening to the rambling, disjointed, highly dramatic tale she spun—in which the influence of many familiar oft-heard stories could easily be seen—Aragorn had to suppress chuckles more than once. He was enjoying himself far too much, and had no desire to risk interrupting the entertainment by drawing her attention.

In the end Dírhael dozed off before she did, but Gailluin was not long in joining him.

At the soft sound of the outside door opening Aragorn looked up to see Halbarad enter. He hastily put a finger to his lips with a meaningful nod toward Dírhael’s chair.

Smiling, Halbarad hung his cloak on the hook by the door before quietly brushing the snow from his boots, rather than stamping it off as was his wont. Coming over to warm his hands by the fire, Halbarad cast a fond smile at the sleeping pair.

“It’s stopped snowing and the wind’s died down, so I came to bring Gailluin home,” he said softly. “After her dramatic escape and two days’ absence everyone is eager to make much of her. I fear she’ll soon be quite spoiled, if Dírhael and Ivorwen haven’t taken care of that already.”

“I had wondered how many of your little ones were too young yet to understand the seriousness of the situation.”

“I think they understood our fear, if nothing else,” Halbarad admitted. “But they’ve settled down for the most part by now. Except for Halbaron,” he added wryly, “who has been busy performing dramatic reenactments of your heroic rescue. I think a stern reminder of the dangers of winter generally, and frozen lakes in particular, will be in order for all the children once we’re safely settled at home.”

Aragorn grunted in agreement. “I’ve no doubt you’ll suitably impress them.”

And indeed, though the softness in Halbarad’s eyes as he looked at his daughter might bely his ability to do so where his children were concerned, Aragorn knew that he was well able to balance loving gentleness with firmness when it was required.

He looked down at the wood in his hand, halfheartedly considering working on it some more before deciding he was too tired to focus on whittling for long. Giving up on it for the time being, he set it aside and wrapped his arms around himself. He had been warm enough earlier, but in his current state that balance was easily disrupted. The blast of cold air that had come in with Halbarad’s entrance was enough to leave him feeling chilled, even so near the fire.

Halbarad arched an eyebrow in his direction. “You look terrible, you know. You should still be in bed.”

“I’m well enough.”

“You’ve not left the warm house in nearly two days, if your chair was any closer to the hearth it would be in danger of catching fire, and still you’re cold. How ill are you?”

He hunched his shoulders a bit against Halbarad’s penetrating look. “I _was_ sick, but I’m well on the path to recovery now, so there’s no need to hover. I am fully capable of looking after myself.”

Halbarad glowered at him a moment longer before turning abruptly away from the fire. Twisting in his chair, Aragorn watched him march the few steps to the corner of the room, where a stack of blankets that Ivorwen had made sat. Snatching up the top one, he all but tossed it at Aragorn’s head, muttering something about “not having the sense Eru gave to a mouse.”

In deference to the sleeping pair across from him, Aragorn kept his indignation to a low growl. Still—because he _did_ have the sense not to reject warmth in favor of standing on pride, thank you very much—he shook the blanket out and wrapped it around himself.

Halbarad hooked one foot around a leg of the stool in front of the spinning wheel, currently pushed back against the wall, and pulled it closer to himself. Taking a seat, he leaned back against the wall near the fire, stretching his legs out and crossing his feet at the ankles.

Aragorn hadn’t realized how much he had tensed against the cold until renewed warmth eased him into relaxation. A soft noise drew his attention back to Halbarad, who now had his arms crossed and was sporting an insufferably smug expression.

“If I were not so comfortable in this chair, I would come over there and punch you in the head,” Aragorn assured his kinsman mildly.

Halbarad only smiled the wider. “I am sure you would,” he replied with equal unconcern, “if you were capable of walking unaided.”

A low blow. He gave Halbarad a dark look, though he was in truth growing too sleepy to put any real force behind it. “What happened to the gratefulness and oaths of eternal servitude you were so full of yesterday?”

Halbarad scratched at his chin thoughtfully. “As I recall, you were quite adamant in discouraging such ideas.”

“A stance I am now reconsidering.”

“I got you the blanket, didn’t I?”

“Hmm. True. Though in future I would prefer less smirking.”

“As my lord commands.” Halbarad sketched a thoroughly disrespectful seated bow.

Picking a few curls of wood shavings from where they clung to his knee, he tossed them in Halbarad’s direction then leaned back in his chair, shutting his eyes. Halbarad only snorted.

“Do you need to be getting home?” he asked lazily.

“So eager to get rid of me?” Halbarad teased.

His mouth quirked in a lopsided smile. “Just wondering.”

“Weather’s not likely to turn bad again anytime soon. I can wait until Gailluin wakes up on her own.”

Aragorn hummed in acknowledgement, his mind already beginning to drift toward sleep. It was nice. The warmth, the quiet, the subtle pleasant smells lingering from lunch and the wood smoke, surrounded by people who were dear to him, no emergencies looming on the horizon…. He had far too much experience to take any of those simple pleasures for granted.

Pulling in a deep breath, he sighed in contentment at almost exactly the same moment that Halbarad released a jaw-cracking yawn. He cracked open his eyes to give Halbarad an amused look.

“What?” Halbarad asked, settling back more comfortably and shutting his eyes. “’S nice here. Peaceful. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a decent nap at my place?”

“Poor Miriel,” he murmured.

“I’ll make it up to her later.”

Ah well, that was Halbarad’s business. He didn’t have the energy to think about much at the moment, much less worry about anything. And, for once, he didn’t have to. Today could take care of itself. He’d worry about tomorrow when it came.

END.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are much loved! :) 
> 
> Story has been lightly proofread, but otherwise cross-posted in its original form.


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